It Doesn’t Get Any Better Than This

I’m working again (albeit it’s just a temporary position). It’s your typical Entertainment Industry assistant gig, but in my recent experience, the only industry that is still hiring assistants on a regular basis is the one that Los Angeles makes a good chunk of its income from. There’s nothing challenging about it, but I do need the industry experience if I’m going to try and make a living in this town.

This past Tuesday was tough on me physically: global warming decided to turn it up a few degrees and it was my turn to run errands. My list included the following:

1. Go to my boss’ new home in Beverly Hills to pick up a couple of items.
2. Drop off Time Warner Cable property at the location on Cahuenga.
3. Visit Marshall’s to purchase a comforter for my boss (preferably in brownish hues).

The house gig was the trickiest one. I had a key, but didn’t realize that the house alarm had been set and would go off as soon as I opened the door. I’ve heard house alarms go off before, but they’ve always been deactivated by the owner well before a stern recording tells me to vacate the premise and that the cops are on the way.

I literally told the recording that I’d love to go, but I had things to get from the house and couldn’t leave until the items had been picked up and were in my car. It was a brand new low for me as an assistant, especially since I’m only a temp – I had doubts that the company would come and pick me up from the station once the police realized that I’d set off the alarm in error. Luckily, I managed to turn off the alarm without any cop cars rolling up the driveway, and I was able to finish my task.

The day was a warm one, and I was still a little bit rattled after the house alarm fiasco. I managed to make it to Time Warner and Ross without any further mishaps, but the heat, the slim chance of me having to deal with the fuzz, and dealing with LA traffic left me cranky. My mood didn’t improve when my phone suddenly indicated that I had three new text messages.

Daytime text messages are on par with nighttime phone calls: someone has either died or wants you in his/her bed. Since I’m single, I had a gut wrenching feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Luckily, no one had died. It was my old roommate, Jamison, on his way back from Rome via Chicago.

Our conversation went a little something like this:

J: Kkkaaatthhhhrrryynnn
J: Dunkin donuts?
J: They have one herein Chicago and I’m going to grab some before I leave
K: Yes please! :D
J: What’s your preference?
K: Pumpkin if they have it; otherwise chocolate
J: Okie dokie
K: Thank you!

That quick exchange (and the promise of a donut) had me turn my frown upside down.

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